


Hallowed be your name

by ilyatath



Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft
Genre: Church Sex, F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:41:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8261303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyatath/pseuds/ilyatath
Summary: In a moment of rest before continuing their mission to stop an Ancient from awakening, Sister Mary has an encounter with someone from her past.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work is inspired/based on the tabletop game Elder Sign.

We were exhausted, our mortal flesh being put through trial after trial in this race against time and old monsters. The Ancients, the professor called them. The Children of the Beast, Father Mallory called them. Old creatures sleeping deep beneath the sea, waiting to be woken from their centuries old slumber to devour the Earth and us Children of God.

I was one of the few that knew this was happening. Anywhere else in Arkham and on Earth, people were ignorant of the fate that would await us all if we failed. It was no easy task to stop the Ancient from awakening. We had already lost lives to this endeavour. One I had cradle his dying body into my arms as I prayed for his soul to be delivered to God. Now there was only five of us. Beaten, exhausted, tested to our limits. And yet, none of us could give up. What else could we do but endure this to the end? God trusted us to save His children, and I was ready once more to answer His call.

Time was running out but we all needed rest, for a mistake caused by exhaustion would be fatal not just to us but humankind. Sleep escaped me, and I had found my way to the Museum's chapel. There on the marble floor, I knelt. My stocking were torn and my naked knees felt the coldness of the stone as I clasped my hands tight in prayer.

“ _ Our Father in heaven,  
hallowed be your name _ ,” my lips uttered in soft, pleading whispers.

“Anise,” his voice echoed into the empty chapel and it echoed inside my ribcage. I clasped my hands tightly, feeling the rosary beads deep into my palms. I had spent five years praying to hear this voice once again call my name, and God had chosen to grant me this at the start of this nightmare.

“Mary,” I corrected him, because five had passed and I had changed. I was not the girl with whom he had dallied before joining the military and going to fight for Queen and country. I was married to God now, and there was nothing more of Anise.

“Forgive me,  _ Sister _ Mary.” His voice sounded sarcastic, and I had to pray for the strength to not rise up and slap the smug smile that surely graced his face now.

“How can I help you, Frank?” I wanted to sound cold and composed, but to my ears his name sounded like a prayer.

My question was answered with the echoes of his steps on the marble floor. I know he was coming closer. I should've rose up and got away, but I could not move. Not even as he knelt behind me, the warmth of his body radiating on my back. He still wore the same cologne whose scent I used to chase on my clothes after each of our encounters. I made the mistake to breath him in and held that breath, held it in my belly where his hand came to lie upon.

It was a big, callous hand that in the past I had wished so many times to touch me. I had wanted to know the feeling of the rough pads of his fingertips on my pale, soft skin. Even now, the obscene part of my mind cursed the dark cloth of my tunic for keeping me from finally finding out the full warmth of his hand.

“What are you doing?” I asked, and it was such a stupid question, but I needed to speak if I could not move.

He pressed his hand on my belly, pushing my body against his. He stood firm behind me. He had always been so much more broader than me.

“Can't you tell?” He asked me, in his husky voice and teasing tone. I felt his other hand on me. It slipped under my tunic, travelled over my ripped stockings, fingernails scratching the inside of my thigh. I knew what he was doing.

“Yes,” I said, my breath heavy as his fingers curled on the frail material of the stockings and ripped through the little holes to make their way underneath it. My heart was thundering inside my chest. My hands were still clasped in prayer and my eyes were still on the cross that hung above the altar. And they stayed open, fixed on the face of Our Lord Jesus Christ, my Holy Husband, as Frank's fingers pushed my panties aside and brushed the rough pad of his fingers against the soft core between my legs.  
How I had dreamt of those long fingers, and their touch was as delicious as it was sinful, but I still didn't push him away, I still didn't pull away. My lips stayed as tightly sealed as my hands were tightly clasped around my rosary. I could feel a burning in me, in my belly, and as Frank moved his fingers, I could feel myself growing wet and lustful.

Frank's breath was so close to my ear and I could felt it warm and smelling of whiskey on my cheek. He said nothing as he made work of me, teasing me until I could but try to meet his fingers, try to let them go where I wanted them, where I ached for them to be.

And then, suddenly, they were gone. My cheeks flushed hot with shame and I closed my eyes to my Holy Husband, praying for his forgiveness of my wanton soul. Forgiveness for the desire that was still in me, the lust that consumed me still. I knelt more. I put my elbows on the flood and my forehead rested on the cold marble, hoping it would extinguish the fire that burned in me.

I wonder, now, if it had been the wrong thing to pray for.

Frank's hands were soon on me again. They raised my tunic, exposing my thighs and lower back. They made their way through my ripped stockings and my panties, and then I felt it—the hard length of him—press against my soft, wet core. It pushed inside as I thanked my Holy Husband and my Holy Father for answering my prayers.

My eyes were open again and even as I was pushed against that cold, marble floor, I raised them to Him as Frank thrust deep within me.  
He wasn't gentle. There was no tenderness to the hard grasp of his hands on my hips, or the deep, forceful thrusts of his hips as he buried himself in me and pulled away only to come back to the heat of my folds. It was raw, and as desperate as the hour we were living.

I soon abandoned my silence to moan, sinfully, as I looked to Our Lord Jesus Christ suffering on his cross to atone for our sins. My sin. Was He looking? Was He watching how I would push myself on Frank's cock and moan like a common whore? I hope He was because the thought alone brought more warmth to my belly. It made the pain of my knees on the floor worthy. It built to the pleasure as much as Frank's pounding was. I could feel myself be so close to rapture.

It was then that I saw him. Father Mallory, hidden in the shadow, watching us, stroking himself.

“Father,” I called, and I wasn't sure if I was calling him or Him, or both, as bliss overtook me.

Frank was not done, but I didn't care, I let him finish. I took pleasure on the obscenity of his seed filling me, of his body slumping on mine as he became spent of his desire, of the wetness that run along my thighs when he pulled out as ungentle as all of this had been.

He left me there, knelt on the chapel floor still, while he rose and left.

I panted and prayed.

“ _ Our Father in heaven,  
hallowed be your name. _ ”


End file.
